Roller rookie

When Cade got back from Philadelphia yesterday afternoon, he’d already promised to do whatever I wanted to do. The original plan was to schlep around the Lower East Side and eventually make it to Washington Square Park, where I’d rollerskate on the flattest concrete surfaces I could find.

I decided to suck up my fears of knocking my teeth out and humiliating myself close to home, and decided to just walk across the street. Central Park was kind of a big selling point of my apartment, and I don’t utilize the city’s backyard enough. I couldn’t venture out alone, not yet anyway. I needed Cade to be my steady arm to grab onto and nimble fingers to dial 911 just in case I get exactly what’s coming to me. Professional roller derby skates on a girl who hasn’t rollerskated in years? More than a bit cocky.

The skating was shaky at first, and my ankles and feet were tense as the terrain vibrated every tendon. I dodged doodoo and people with strollers. Eventually, Cade and I found a rollerskating orgy near the abandoned sand volleyball court. I’m guessing the patchouli-wearing rollerdancing enthusiasts were former regulars on the Manhattan cable access show, Central Park Skate. They were quite agile on their brakeless skates. One guy in particular appeared to be a cement nymph or something, gracelessly twirling and jumping.

After Cade threated to push my clumsy butt into the mix of rollerskating talent and experience, we headed to Wollman Rink, where people with stronger ankles were ice skating. Now that’s something I just can’t do. I blame the inconsistency of the surface when a Zamboni hasn’t been used in awhile. Well, that and the fact that my ankles are rickety enough with flip flops, much less sharp, dagger soled boots. It is really cool to watch, though, especially the jumps and leg extensions. None of the skaters were doing any of those last night. It was a crowd of amateurs holding their significant others’ hands in vice grips, gritting their teeth as they hung on precariously to the rink’s wall.